Was Mr. Wrightman so wrong after all?
She broke the seal with her fingernails, freshly painted orange, a color she borrowed from Fiona. Outside the window, one quaint English village after another blurred by in the night.
“Can you turn on the light back here, please? I need to read something.”
The cabbie turned on the light and raised the volume on the radio. The rap music that was blaring out of it gave Chloe a headache. Certain words floated to the surface: ho and butt and bitch, and nasty. She sank down into the seat and held the cream-colored letter in front of her.
He had written it with ink and quill.
Dear Chloe,
I haven’t much time to write, as you’ve ordered a cab and it will soon be here, so this missive will not be as polished as I would like.
Do consider staying on a bit longer. If not for me, then for your friends, such as Mrs. Crescent. If not for Mrs. Crescent, then for yourself, to really see England. I can arrange for a private tour guide to show you the sights of London. How can you leave without seeing London Bridge? Buckingham Palace? Windsor Castle? I just can’t bear to have you leave our country in this manner. I can’t bear to have you leave at all.
I apologize for deceiving you. I don’t blame you for being upset. It was a damn ridiculous thing to do to a woman like you.
Still, I find it comforting to know that, even if you are half a world away, a woman like you exists. I had quite given up. You see, I, too, fell in love with you on paper, when I read your profile and all the transcripts of your interviews months ago. I asked for you to be the first chosen. But George didn’t want you on the show until the final weeks—for drama’s sake. He told me you had been contacted but were engaged to be married. I was taken by surprise when you arrived. Truly, I let Sebastian go a bit too far, and he, too, seemed to fall for you. But he’s not ready to settle down, as you well know.
What I do know is that my feelings for you are real, and always will be. When you get back to the real world, I hope you will think of me. And when that day comes, please contact me by e-mail, post, telephone, or smoke signals. I’ll have both you and your daughter flown over here in a heartbeat. I’d like to propose a secret correspondence and we can get to know each other better—the old-fashioned way.
I will be waiting.
Sincerely yours,
Henry Wrightman
P.S. Take good care of your mousetrap. I’ve known Alistair since he was a kitten. All the paperwork required for travel is enclosed. And yes, I named him after Alistair Cooke.
“Departures. American Airlines. We’re here,” the cabbie said. He went around to the trunk, or the “boot” as the English called it, and started unloading. Chloe shoved the letter in her bag. The American Airlines logo shone in her face. She slid out of the cab, grabbed her bag, and looked back at the crate.
She handed the cabbie his fare. “And here’s full fare back. Please take that cat back to Dartworth Hall.”
The cabbie looked at her as he lit up another cigarette. “I’m not going back. I’m staying in London tonight.” The smoke made her nauseous.
Rap music rumbled from the inside of the cab, the bass throbbing in her brain. “Then take it back tomorrow. Next week. I don’t care.” She handed him the money, but he pushed it away.
“I don’t like cats.”
Chloe looked around. “How about another cabbie, then?”
Near the curb a couple kissed good-bye. The woman started crying. She stood alone for a minute to watch her man run through the automatic doors to catch his plane.
The cabbie handed the crate to Chloe. “Thank you very much. I’ve got a pickup.” He left her there on the curb, loaded with baggage, meowing crate in hand. And he didn’t even bow.
Alistair turned in his crate and scratched on the door. She lumbered over to a line of cabs. She knocked on every window, but nobody wanted to drive out to the country at this hour. Did these people want to make money or what?
Finally, she gave up. It was time to check in. The overhead announcements, flashing computer screens, ads, and throngs of people dashing around made her queasy. She leaned on the metal stand that marked the end of the long, mazelike check-in line for economy class. Crying children clung to their parents. Some people carried suitcases and cardboard boxes wrapped in duct tape. She glanced over to the business-class check-in. Two men in suits and a woman with a laptop floated to their respective check-in desks.
Her check-in guy didn’t even smile. He just handed the crate back to her. “All animals need to be brought to the international cargo desk.” He did say this with a charming, posh English accent, though. “Four hours ahead of departure.”
Chloe’s passport shook in her hands. “What? But my flight leaves in an hour!”
He gave her a blank stare. The man behind her bumped into her with his rolling carry-on and didn’t even apologize—or stop.
“Can the cat go on the next flight, then?”
No response.
“Without me?”
“I do believe that’s possible.”
An hour later she was in the boarding line, half expecting Henry to burst through the crowd and give it one more shot. But he didn’t.
If she weren’t so hungry, she might’ve thought the empty feeling inside was something like regret. She was so hungry she might’ve even eaten a rabbit with head and furry ears still intact.
“Second row from the back, middle seat,” said the flight attendant on board. She had an American accent.
The person behind Chloe pushed into her. Chloe took her ticket from the flight attendant.
“Um. Just a question. If I’ve changed my mind, can I go back now?”
The flight attendant smiled. “No.” She nudged Chloe along. “Second row from the back, middle seat.”
Chloe wedged herself between a sprawling teenager playing video games on his phone and a pregnant woman breathing heavily and spilling over two seats. A child behind her kicked her seat incessantly. Nobody taught manners anymore. Mental note: buy iPad with earbuds as soon as possible.
She covered herself up in a blanket up to her chin, and decided to rid herself of all vestiges of her English fantasy world. It was over. So over. Still, she hoped Alistair was okay. And Abigail. She couldn’t wait to see her!
Chapter 23
Ten minutes with Abigail and it was as if Chloe had never left.
They quickly settled back into the strong mother-daughter They quickly settled back into the strong mother-daughter team they’d always been and Chloe served up pasta for nights on end. But it took weeks to deprogram Abigail out of the princess mode that Grandma and Grandpa had gotten her into, despite their current lack of cash. Chloe packed away the pink dress-up trunk full of shiny gowns, magic wands, and plastic tiaras for good. She donated the books of fairy tales to Goodwill and put Abigail on a strict diet of nonfiction because she didn’t want to perpetuate the myth of charming princes on horses and happily-ever-after.
“Grandpa still calls me his princess,” Abigail said days later as Chloe brushed her long brown hair for school. “And he said he’s the king.”
Chloe looked at the two of them in the bathroom mirror and pointed with the pink brush for emphasis. “Have I taught you nothing? Remember? They’re not royalty of any kind. And neither are we.”
Abigail frowned and looked down at her new cowboy boots.
“You’re not a princess. You’re a very smart girl who’s going to go to college and live in an apartment and work in a big city. It’s so much better than being a princess.”